


sick day

by professortennant



Category: Bon Appétit Test Kitchen RPF, Chef RPF
Genre: Cuddling, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-06
Updated: 2019-08-06
Packaged: 2020-08-10 06:17:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20130730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/professortennant/pseuds/professortennant
Summary: “What are we watching?”“Figured I’d finally get around to watching Sniper. See if I can keep up with your references.”“You’d think by now you’d have figured out you can’t keep up with me,” he bantered back, strangely delighted that she was watching one of his favorite, most referenced films. She wanted to know about the things that he liked. That now-familiar rush of warmth flooded his chest again and he fought the urge to grin goofily at her.That warmth, these feelings, were starting to stop being as unidentifiable and nebulous and instead were taking shape into something very definable and downright terrifying.Claire rolled her eyes at him, coughing pitifully into the crook of her elbow and settling in. “I don’t really get this movie, though. I mean, what’s the point of it?”“The point! Claire! The point is that it’s awesome.”“If you say so…”





	sick day

The empty station was haunting him. For the past three days, that work surface should be covered in flour and powdered sugar and there should have been a certain pastry chef giggling and groaning and pestering him for help and advice and opinions.

Instead, the space where Claire should be was startlingly empty and all Brad could do was distractedly break down the box of fresh tuna on his station and wonder when he started to depend on seeing her in the kitchen every day.

“Hey, Carla, where’s Claire?”

“Um, pretty sure she’s still sick. She called me this morning.” Carla frowned sympathetically. “She didn’t sound too hot.”

Brad let out a low whistle of concern, brow furrowing. That was three days now she had been sick. He knew the last few weeks—well, months—had been rough on her. Her sniffles, coughs, and feverish pale skin had haunted the test kitchen, impervious to his tried-and-true garlic gloves.

He thought about her curled up alone in her apartment, miserable and sick and alone.

In the end, the decision to abandon his station and take off was an easy one.

_________________________

Once he’s outside her door, armful of paper bags from her favorite bodega on the corner stuffed to the brim with orange juice and peppermint tea and chicken soup, he’s nervous. Showing up unannounced just isn’t a thing they _do._ But she’s never been this sick for this long and, well, a guy gets used to a routine. And he hasn’t seen her in almost a week and he misses her. And he’s concerned for her.

Like any friend. 

So he takes a deep breath and knocks on her door, shifts the bags in his arms, and waits with his heart in his throat. 

The sight that greets him when her front door finally opens is heartbreaking. She’s simultaneously, inexplicably, both paler than normal and flushed pink. A giant, oversized sweater hangs off her petite frame and she looks a little dazed, eyes a little glazed over, hair piled on top of her head in a messy, wild bun. 

In short, she looks _miserable._

“Heya, Saffitz,” he greets, his normally loud and boisterous voice uncharacteristically soft and concerned in the face of her illness.

“Brad?” she asks, confused. “What are you doing here?”

The uncharacteristic nerves bubble up in his stomach again, wondering if he made a misstep, toed over the line of their friendship by showing up here when she’s vulnerable. But he swallows against those feelings and barrels on.

“Heard you were sick goin’ on sicker and thought I’d come by and check on ya.”

A soft, exhausted smile curls her lips and she steps back and opens the door wider for him. “That’s sweet,” she offers. “I rea—“ And then her nose scrunches in a way that he really, _really _shouldn’t find adorable, and her body is wracked with a series of sneezes that morphs into deep, productive coughs that leave her unsteady on her feet.

“Hey, hey, hey,” he says, shifting the bags in his arms and reaching for her, steadying her. “Okay, you go lay down before you topple over and I’ll unpack in the kitchen.”

She doesn’t sass him back, doesn’t protest or fuss about being a hostess, and that’s how he knows she’s really feeling sick. Claire once hosted the team for dinner and Brad had seen less active moths in a football stadium. She’d fluttered from person to person, ensuring everyone was having a good time and that their drinks and bellies were full.

Now, she just nodded at him and shuffled back to the living room to collapse into the pile of blankets on the couch. Brad quickly unpacked the groceries he had brought over, throwing the orange juice and soup into the fridge and shaking his head at the number of containers in Claire’s fridge filled with frostings, ganaches, and all other manner of baking accoutrement. 

Figuring she probably needed a top up, he put the kettle on and set to work puttering about Claire’s kitchen, assembling a giant, steaming cup of peppermint tea. 

Carrying the steeped tea into the living room, he found himself stopping short at the sight of Claire bundled up on the couch, surrounded by giant, thick blankets. Just her head was peeking out and he watched with a soft, warm feeling in his chest as she sniffled and groaned and rocked to the side, collapsing against the side of the couch pathetically.

“Alright, Claire, here we go,” he said, walking over to where she lay and placing the fresh cup of peppermint tea on her side table. He pushed aside the other, long abandoned mugs and stacked them neatly, making a mental note to grab them and stick them in the sink before he left. 

“This is all your fault, you know,” came her mumbled, miserable voice. “I don’t know how, but it is.”

He let out a bark of laughter at that and shook his head, hand clutching at his heart playfully. “_Ouch_, Claire.”

Dark, bleary eyes peered up at him with a softness that he wasn’t used to seeing so directly. There were times when he caught that look every once in a while working together, her eyes full of mirth and affection before dropping from his face, turning away and hiding it from him. 

Suddenly, it hit him that he didn’t actually know what he was doing here. He was so driven by the need to see her, make sure she was okay, that he didn’t think beyond dropping off the groceries, making her tea, and leaving. 

“Well, uh, I just wanted to make sure you were still breathin’. It’s not like you to be sick this long and, uh, yeah. So, I guess you’re all set with your tea and your soup and uh, your blankets, so I guess—I guess I’ll just go then.”

A small, feverish hand shot out from beneath the blankets to grab onto his wrist, fingertips pressing like a brand into his skin. He wondered if she could feel the way his pulse doubled at the contact. That was new, too. This sudden awareness and response to her: every gentle, friendly hand on his elbow, her nudging his side, her smacking his arm in faux outrage. 

He looked down at her small hand in his, mouth suddenly dry. 

“Don’t go,” she said softly, pleadingly. “I’ve been trapped in this apartment for days.” Cough, sniffle, cough, and then a watery, weak smile. “Could use some company.”

And with those big eyes and her scrunched up nose and her wild hair and her hand in his, he was helpless to do anything else. 

His entire demeanor softened and he nodded. “Alright, budge up then, Saffitz. Make room.”

She grinned and pulled herself up into a sitting position, making room for him next to her on the couch. He collapsed down beside her, his tall frame comically folded on her small couch. His thigh burned with warmth where it pressed against her socked food tucked up under her. 

“What are we watching?”

The television was turned down low and he just realized what was on when she pressed her foot against his thigh teasingly. “Figured I’d finally get around to watching Sniper. See if I can keep up with your references.”

“You’d think by now you’d have figured out you can’t keep up with me,” he bantered back, strangely delighted that she was watching one of his favorite, most referenced films. It spoke to friendship and _caring. _She wanted to know about the things that he liked. That now-familiar rush of warmth flooded his chest again and he fought the urge to grin goofily at her. 

That warmth, these feelings, were starting to stop being as unidentifiable and nebulous and instead were taking shape into something very definable and downright terrifying. That warmth felt an awful lot like attraction and the first, curling tendrils of love.

Claire rolled her eyes at him, coughing pitifully into the crook of her elbow and settling in. “I don’t really _get _this movie, though. I mean, what’s the _point_ of it?”

“The point! Claire! The point is that it’s _awesome.”_

“If you say so…”

“Claire, how much of this movie did you sleep through? Because I _know_ you’re on all kinds of brain-altering cold meds, so maybe you’re not getting the full experience.” He fumbled for her remote on the table in front of the couch, rewinding the movie and starting it over. “Okay, okay, look, you just need to watch it with an expert.”

To his delight, her giggles—a sound he’d come to cherish—erupt and fill the tiny apartment, the warmth in his chest flaring. Relaxing against the couch, his arm slinging along the back and his legs splaying out, he settles in and begins to narrate _Sniper_ from the beginning, pointing out all of his favorite parts, all the important parts and quotes every person should carry with them in their day-to-day.

They’re twenty minutes in and Claire has spent most of her time laughing and coughing at his commentary (and God, he thinks, this feels _right_, the pair of them together and on the couch and laughing), when Claire shivers and shakes all over, pulls the blankets around her shoulders even closer in an attempt to garner an extra ounce of warmth. 

The words fly out of his mouth before he can think about it—like most words do—and he reaches for her, tugging softly on her blankets. “C’mere, for god’s sake.”

She doesn’t protest, doesn’t fight it. Just lets him tug her against his side, lets his arm settle around her shoulders and hold her against him. She tenses at first and he doesn’t look down at her when he can feel her eyes on his face, instead looking straight ahead to see Tom Berenger kickin’ ass and taking names. 

And then his heart rockets up in speed when he feels her arm tentatively slide around his middle, pressing herself closer and resting her cheek against his shoulder. She sighs against his arm, sags and completely relaxes against him, clearly glad to be finally, _finally_ warm. And, before he can think about commenting on the fact that they’re all out fucking _snuggling _on her couch, he feels her breathing even out and he knows that she’s asleep, the sickness and heat finally taking her away into dreamland. 

His lunch hour is dwindling and he knows he needs to get back to work, knows that questions will be asked if he’s gone too long. But Claire is sleepy and soft and warm and pressed against him, her fingertips gently curling into the fabric of his shirt and her gentle breaths warming his skin with each exhale. 

She’s normally such a whirlwind of energy—just like him, but in a different, more focused way—that it feels strange and sacred to see her like this. It makes him want to protect her, care for her. And there it is again, that dangerous, curling tendril of love wrapping itself around his heart as surely as Claire is wrapped around him now. 

He lets her sleep a while longer, covers her arm across his stomach with his own hand and strokes softly, reassuringly. Her skin is hot and feverish to the touch, but he knows the fever will be gone soon.

Finally, though, he knows he has to leave and he shifts beside her, disentangles from her grasp. She lets out a sleepy, soft groan of protest, upset at the sudden loss of his body heat. He grins and helps her lay down onto the couch, pulls the blankets up around her shoulders and, because yeah, okay, he’s in love with her, he brushes his fingertips over the curve of her cheek and pushes the tendrils of hair that have escaped her bun back off her forehead. 

Her eyes—big and brown and so fucking beautiful and fuck he’s screwed—blink open and stare at him sleepily, softly. Her hand, so soft and gentle, find his forearm.

He tries to ignore how close their faces are, how easy it would be to close the gap and finally know what she tastes like, know if she would kiss him back or push him away. It’s a work of sheer self-control that he doesn’t, but the ache and ghost of how much he _wants_ to lingers.

“Leaving?”

Her voice is hoarse with sleep and sickness and he nods, trails his fingers down the line of her jaw. Her eyes flutter closed at the touch and he wonders if her shiver is because of him or the fever. 

“Yeah, I gotta go, Claire. But you’re all set, okay? Soup and juice and tea have all been restocked.”

Her hand on his forearm squeezes softly and a strange, affectionate look crosses her face as she blinks up at him, lips curling into a smile. “Thanks, Brad.”

“Any time, Half-Sour,” he grins, standing up with a final look at her sleeping, sick form, already planning to make a return trip that night on the way home from work. Just to check in, he reminds himself, like any friend would do. 

Except, he’s starting to think maybe they’re more than just friends and that maybe, just maybe, they should talk about that. 

He leaves her dozing on the couch and closes her apartment door with a soft click, reluctantly heading back to the kitchen. He’d much rather be on the couch with her, her body pressed against his. 

But he carries with him the memory of her soft curves pressed against him, her giggles in his ear, and the promise of something _more_ on the horizon. 

And when he sneezes and coughs and sniffles a few hours later, he can’t even be made about it. 

**Author's Note:**

> standard RPF rules apply, yadda, yadda. i'm obsessed with these two and i have a few more fics i gotta hop outta my brain before i can relax. i literally had a dream about them last night that they did a 'we got married' 3-part video in which BA made them pretend to be in a relationship for hits/views and then real feelings developed. that's where we're at.


End file.
